


Brandy and Soda

by sanguinity



Series: sang's moreholmes [6]
Category: The Seven-Per-Cent Solution - All Media Types, The Seven-Per-Cent Solution - Nicholas Meyer
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes returns to Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brandy and Soda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/gifts).



> Many thanks to my betas, Quipxotic and Grrlpup, and to Rachelindeed, who led me to ask what the 7PER's revision of Reichenbach might look like when extended through “The Empty House."
> 
>  **Warnings** for past drug use and current character death.
> 
> Originally posted at [Holmestice](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/384038.html).

> “My dear fellow,” said Holmes not unkindly, holding me by the arm, “you mustn’t take it so hard. I tell you I am going to recover. But I need time. It may be a long time.” After a pause, he went on hastily. “But I shall return to Baker Street, you have my word. Please give my best to Mrs. Watson.” 
> 
> — _The Seven Percent Solution_

* * *

“I regret you’ve wasted your time, sir,” I said as I entered my consulting rooms, my mind still in the sickroom I had just left. My regret was a bald lie, of course: I had no energy even to wonder why someone wished to consult me at this late hour, nor why Jenny had permitted him to wait. I only wished him gone again, with as little fuss as possible. “I’m not seeing patients. I can recommend...” 

I stopped speaking, for I had finally looked properly at the lean figure, sitting forward with his head bent over steepled hands. He turned to look at me, and if I had not already known him by his raven hair and the long line of his back, I would have known him by those grey eyes. I would have known those eyes anywhere, though I had not seen him in three years. 

He stood. He was rather more than six feet tall, but still so thin as to appear taller. 

“Watson,” said Mr Sherlock Holmes. 

My step faltered, and I reached for the table. I had no idea why he had returned to London now, of all times, but his timing was abysmal. If he wished assistance on a case, he would have to find it elsewhere or go it alone, no matter the consequences. I could not leave Mary, not even for the night. And if— 

A sudden terror seized me, and before I knew what I was about, I had knotted my fist into the fabric of his sleeve and dragged him into the light, so that it fell directly upon his face. 

He had been gaunt when I last saw him, not so very long off his own sickbed, but he had put on some weight in the interval. His cheekbones were still sharp, but the once-cavernous hollows of his face had filled in. There was new colour in his skin, too: the complexion that had ranged from ghost-white to porcelain under London skies had deepened to a pale straw. He was the picture of rude good health, and my heart twisted in my breast. Relief, that I did not have to somehow find the strength to worry over them both; jealousy, that my Mary did not look so well. 

I swear upon my soul that I did not wish for them to be switched in that moment. And yet, in those last, desperate days, I wished for many things that did not become me. 

I do not know what he saw in my face, but his eyes were sympathetic. “I have not touched a needle since I saw you last,” Holmes reassured me, gently removing my hand from his sleeve. He put off his frock coat and, laying it aside, reached for his left shirt-cuff. 

Shame flooded me, as I realized what he was about. “No, there’s no need for that, I beg you,” I said, trying to brush his hand aside. 

He shook me off. “On this point, if no other, I wish that you should feel no anxiety.” He unfastened his cuff and pushed up his sleeve, showing me the soft flesh of his inner elbow. The scars there were white and old, and I felt my breath release, a breath I had not known I was holding. “I have not thrown away your hard work.” 

“Your hard work, you mean.” He had gone through hell when Dr Freud helped him throw off the drug. I had done little more than stand by helplessly and watch. 

He huffed, not quite a laugh. “Is that what I meant?” 

“Why have you come?” I asked, perfectly lost. “If it’s for a case, I’m sorry, I can’t possibly…” 

He was watching me with a frown of puzzlement. “Mrs Watson sent for me,” he said. 

I regret to admit that my fatigue and anxiety became too much for me. Holmes eased me into the nearest chair, then poured the brandy. 

“I take it with soda,” I said, and saw those assured hands hitch. Holmes and I had seen each other only infrequently during my marriage, and not at all these past three years; he could not have been privy to my wife’s preference that I take my brandy with soda, like her hero, General Gordon. These last months, doing so had seemed a small enough sacrifice for her pleasure. 

And if I had been attempting to make a bargain — _I will do the things I have never before seen fit to do, if only you will stay_ — then that was between me and my God. 

“Nevertheless,” Holmes said with authority, “it seems that you have had a shock, and so you will drink this one neat.” He pressed the glass into my hand, then crouched near my feet, where he could see my face better. He studied me while I drank. “Did you really believe I would not come?” 

I did not know what I had believed. Holmes had troubles of his own and had been reluctant to come back to London, where he might settle back into old habits. Perhaps not sending for him had been like the brandy and soda, another bargain. 

“How did she know where to reach you?” I asked. Three years ago, I had seen him off on the Milan Express, his ultimate destination still undecided, and I had had no word from him since. He had told me to look for notice of a concert violinist by the name of Sigerson, but if he found acclaim under that name, it passed me by. 

“I’m sure Mrs Watson reasoned that since someone was paying for the maintenance of my rooms, Mrs Hudson had an address to appeal to for the rent,” he said, as if the explanation were too trivial to be bothered with. Then, somewhat more gently, “I always did say Mrs Watson has the makings of an investigator.” I nodded. “In any case, Mycroft sent word to me, and I came straightaway. He sends his regards, by the way. He would have come himself, but fears that his appearance at your door would have been too great of a shock.” 

That forced a laugh from me, the incongruity of Mycroft Holmes making a social call. 

Holmes smiled and got up to pour me another drink, this time with soda. I tasted it: as vile as ever. 

He drew a chair near mine and watched me fail to enjoy my drink. Thankfully, he did not question me about it. “How is she?” he eventually asked. 

“Resting,” I said. I was well-practised at voicing the smaller details, to avoid the larger ones. 

He simply looked at me, his eyes solemn. 

I glanced away, shaking my head. Mary had given up hope days earlier, but she nevertheless continued to cling stubbornly to life. For what purpose, I had not known, but I had hoped by some miracle to turn the extra hours to our favour. Now, however, her purpose was clear to me: she was waiting for Holmes to arrive. 

I covered my eyes, suddenly unmanned by what was about to come. 

Holmes waited quietly. 

“I have not given up hope,” I said, when I thought I could control my voice. 

He nodded, his eyes fast upon my face. “No,” he agreed, bittersweet affection in his voice, “you never would.” It immediately brought me near tears again. 

He pressed my arm. “You are exhausted, my dear boy. Turn in and get some rest. I’ll sit up and keep watch.” 

“I’m not sure I can,” I said in despair. I had not been able to sleep for days. 

“You will,” he said, with firm authority. I found myself leaning in to the assurance of that voice; I desperately wanted to believe him. He stood me up and walked me to the hall as if I was only a child frightened to go to bed. “There is the nurse,” he reassured me, “and I will fetch you instantly if there is any change.” When I hesitated, he added, “I will do nothing until you’re awake again.” He would not go to see Mary, he meant, and risk provoking a crisis. 

I nodded. That was all the more reason to sleep; soon there would be no time for it. 

And then there would be all the time in the world for it. 

I turned back from the stairs one more time. “I am indebted to you for coming, Holmes.” 

He smiled as if I had said something that amused him. “Go on,” he urged me. “I’ll help you sleep.” 

As I settled into my cold bed—half-dressed, for I could not bear the thought of having to pause to throw on clothes if Mary reached a crisis during the night—I heard the soft, sweet notes of Holmes’ violin at the foot of the stairs. His dreamy air wove through the house, pitched low so as to not disturb even the most fragile rest. The sound seemed to me a buoy, moving with the seas and yet proof from them. A secure point of attachment, in which one might trust while one slept. 

Buoyed to the sound of his violin, I let myself drift, my Mary’s dear face before me.


End file.
